The Demon of Dakar - Kjell Eriksson [92]
Angel used to ask why the white men were rich and why the Indians lived worse than dogs. Manuel’s talk about five hundred years of oppression and extortion did not impress him.
“But there are more of us,” he would object. “Why do we accept the white man taking the best for himself?”
Manuel knew that all Angel dreamed of was a woman to share his life. Where and under what circumstances did not matter. His brother had an uncomplicated attitude to life; he wanted to love and be loved. Manuel had always imagined Angel as the father of countless offspring, small chubby Zapotec children in a village like all the others.
Why should he talk politics when he couldn’t understand it? Why ponder the injustices of life when all he wanted was a woman’s embrace?
Almost an hour had gone by when a man suddenly appeared in the courtyard. It was only as he approached the red door that he noticed Manuel. He jumped but then smiled and said something that Manuel did not understand.
Manuel nodded and asked in English if he worked at Dakar.
“Are you Spanish?” the man asked.
“Venezuela,” Manuel answered.
“A friend of Chávez,” the man said, in a strange kind of Spanish.
“No,” Manuel replied.
“Your president, I mean. Forget it,” he added, when he saw Manuel’s look of incomprehension. “My name is Feo and sure, I work here.”
“Are you from Spain?”
“Portugal,” Feo said.
Manuel stared at him. Feo took out a set of keys.
“Are you waiting for someone?”
Manuel shook his head. “I’m looking for work,” he said.
Feo put a key in the lock but did not turn it. Manuel felt the tense feeling from California, and got to his feet.
“At Dakar? Do you have any experience?”
“I can work,” Manuel said hastily. “I am used to everything. I can work hard and long.”
Feo studied him. Manuel stood with hanging arms, met his gaze, and thought of Angel. He decided to go to Frankfurt to see where his brother had met his death. Perhaps there were some stones on the railway tracks with dried blood? Perhaps someone had seen him run?
“You’ll have to speak to the owner,” the Portuguese man said. “He isn’t here, but come in and wait. You look like you could use a Coke.”
He unlocked the door and let Manuel go in first, locked the door behind him and Manuel was struck by how cool everything was. There was a faint smell of cleaning solution and food.
Feo put a hand on his shoulder.
“You look like you could use a Coke,” he repeated.
Manuel looked around him as if he were expecting to be ambushed at any second. Feo brought him out to the bar, took out a Coca-Cola, and held it out with a smile.
There was a clatter of pots from the kitchen and a radio playing Bruce Springsteen. Manuel was thirsty but did not manage to swallow more than a mouthful.
“Come along and meet the chef,” Feo said.
Manuel accompanied Feo to the kitchen. As Feo was introducing him, Manuel wondered why he was being treated so kindly. He watched the Portuguese and heard him explain in Swedish why the stranger was here. Donald gave him a cursory glance and nod but then immediately turned back to his work. In front of him lay herb-stuffed lamb roulade that he was slicing into portions, then weighing and stacking them in a plastic container. Manuel drew in the smell.
“You speak English?” Donald asked.
Manuel nodded.
“Damn, you speak English with an Indian accent,” Feo said and thumped Donald in the back.
“Do you have a work permit?”
“No,” said Manuel.
“Then it will be difficult. Slobban, the guy who owns this place, is pretty particular about things like that.”
“No problems,” Feo said.
“You are from Venezuela?” Donald continued. “Where did you learn English?”
“I have worked in California.”
“Grapes of Wrath,” Donald said in Swedish, and smiled unexpectedly.
He finished slicing the lamb.
“A novel” was his reply to Feo’s quizzical look, and then switched back to English again. “I’ll talk to Slobban because we do need a dishwasher. If you have worked in the States then it will be like a vacation to wash dishes at Dakar.”
Manuel listened in fascination to the chef. His English really